


Mon chouchou, mon ange, mon petit Julien

by Reading_By_Torchlight



Series: Days before the Storm [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Era, Gen, Mentions of Suicide, finding a purpose, losing a parent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-28 09:27:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17784836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reading_By_Torchlight/pseuds/Reading_By_Torchlight
Summary: He went to wake up his maman, a wooden coffee tray in his small hands.***“My darling little fiddler! Mon petit violiniste!”, his mother had always said after he’d played for her. After he had bowed clumsily, his mother would bend down and kiss each of his tiny fingers and her floating voice would be the sweetest sound he could wish for. “Je t’aime, mon ange!”***“Maman?” he’d called. There had been no response. Other children might have screamed at the sight. Julien did not.





	Mon chouchou, mon ange, mon petit Julien

1815

He is nine years of age.

“Monsieur, I beg of you, we cannot send the boy away! He is but a child!”

“’Délaide, I am not going to take your advice on how to raise my own son!”

“Monsieur, may I remind you, three years ago, the lad was still unbreeched and now you wish to send him away?”

“How on earth is he supposed to grow into a decent young man here without a mother to rear him?”

Julien covers his ears. He is sitting on his favourite spot on the windowsill, where he can hide behind the thick red velvet curtains – out of his father’s range of vision. As the volume of those enraged voices increases, his grip around the brittle binding of the book in his lap tightens.

Outside his safe haven, his father and nanny are deciding his fate.

Do they not feel any sort of pain? How can they talk of mother? He does not understand. He does not comprehend.

A few hours ago, everything has been all right in his small world. How can it be that everything has changed in such a short amount of time?

XXX

He went to wake up his _maman_ , a wooden coffee tray in his small hands.

_“My darling little fiddler! Mon petit violiniste!”, his mother had always said after he’d played for her. She especially adored Bach’s violin concerto in e-major. After he had bowed clumsily, his mother would bend down and kiss each of his tiny fingers and her floating voice would be the sweetest sound he could wish for. “Je t’aime, mon ange!”_

He’d plucked the bouquet of lavender himself, proudly laying it down next to the porcelain cup before making his way upstairs.

“ _Maman_?” he’d called. Once, twice, thrice. There had been no response. Carefully, he’d set down the tray on the parquet before pressing down the door handle.

Other children might have screamed at the sight. Julien did not.

He simply stepped closer towards the pompous four-poster, looking at his dear _maman_. His _maman_ who looked as angelic as the fine cherubs that occupied the walls and ceilings of churches, her limbs tangled in pristine white sheets.  When he took one of her hands in his, he noticed the crimson spots. There were two of them, just where her wrists had lain. He still did not step back. He did not understand.

When he moved his foot, his bare soles made contact with cool metal. Upon looking down, he noticed the paper knife that was lying there. He furrowed his brow.

When she still did not respond, he slapped her cheek lightly.

Nothing.

“ _Maman_?” he asked, desperation creeping into his small voice.

“ _Maman?_ ” he begged, tugging at her cold, blue hands repeatedly.

“ _Maman?_ ” he cried, tears cascading down his fair cheeks.

Suddenly, there were an awful lot of people in the room. The butler, the lady’s maid, the housemaids, the footmen and even the hallboys. There was Délaide and there was his father.

Someone was trying to tear him away from his beloved _maman_. The person was dressed in dark, a doctor’s coat.

_Non, non, non! Ne me touchez pas!_

The clock struck eleven and they carried his mother outside. One by one, they filed out of the room, leaving the little barefooted boy with those long blond curls that looked so like his mother’s kneeling beside the bed, unable to fully comprehend what just had happened.

Next to the paper knife, dried blood sullying its blade, there was thin little booklet on the floor.

Julien grabbed it. His fat teardrops were pooling beneath his eyes and made it hard to read what was written on the old spine. The cursive on the first side was much easier to decipher.; it was that familiar penmanship that he had used for a guide when he had first started to mimic the curves of an L or the slopes of an S.

_Mon chouchou, mon ange, mon petit Julien,_

_I am so unbelievable sorry. I know, this will never do for an apology but know that I would not leave you freely! It pains me so to know that I will not be there to kiss my darling boy._

_This world is not for me. Read this book and whilst you might not be able to forgive my actions, perhaps you may understand them. You are a most intelligent lad, always have been._

_Know that I love you with all my heart, with every fibre of my very being!_

_Adieu mon ange, until we meet again,_

_Maman_

_XXX_

He is still hiding behind the curtains, his father and his nanny are still yelling but he is not crying any longer. He is immersed in that book, in that book that had captured his _maman’s_ soul with such rigor that she had found no way to cope with the state of the world but to leave.

He flicks through the pages and as he reads, he feels something stirring inside him. He does not fully understand but in that moment –his father and nanny still shouting in the background- he feels like he has a purpose for the first time in his short life.

On the first page, the title is barely legible, the ink faded as though the book has been passed from hand to hand in secrecy.

**_Idées Républicaines_ **

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this please leave me a comment. I really love to hear from you.  
> Thanks for reading :)


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